


pleasant dreams

by 122940756



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Choking, M/M, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, and just a little dash of angst, if you can even call it that, implied one-sided kind-of-WOL/WOL, it's weird. i know, the actual WOL is mentioned though, the pairing consists of a kind of but not really WOL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22292347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/122940756/pseuds/122940756
Summary: “Careful, now,” his visitor says, looking up now; the smirk remains. “I could swear you were interested in the goings-on of a halfman for a moment there.”Absolutely insufferable, but Emet-Selch is the slightest bit amused just the same.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	1. seven letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an introductory little thing. if you're here for the fucking it's in the next chapter, this bit isn't strictly necessary (but i like to think it adds to it.)

He has made no concerted effort to conceal himself, but Emet-Selch is still surprised to find himself sought out by any of the halfmen he has taken to observing, let alone just one of them. _Strength in numbers_ , he recalls distantly - that was the mortal saying. Someone in their merry band of fools must have missed the memo.

Interest piqued for the moment, he leans lackadaisically into the pillar he rests against, sipping at a large cup of Amaurotine tea with precisely six cubes of sugar, wondering idly which fool it would be. The hyur with the white hair seemed ever the hot-headed fellow, quick to draw his gunblade and even quicker to fire off thoughtless insults. Along those same lines it could also be the girl with the identical brother, striking out on her own after a heated verbal spar with her companions. The Ascian sighs into an intricately patterned rim - so devastatingly predictable, the lot of them.

But when Emet-Selch glances back to meet his visitor, towards the brilliant tower standing obnoxiously bright against the region’s newly-rendered night, he is wrong on both accounts; the hyur that stands before him is diminutive, and the half of his face that isn’t concealed by a shock of dark hair is pulled into a glower. “A strange spot to choose for leisure,” he remarks dully, illuminated blue eyes anything but. “Couldn’t secure yourself room and board in the Pendants, I take it?”

Emet-Selch smiles faintly. The lengths mortals will go through to posture themselves will never cease to amuse him. “And what of you?” he asks pleasantly, lowering his cup for the moment. He tries to recall this one’s name - it is rather familiar, compared to the rest, but it remains just outside of memory, clinging to the tip of his tongue. “I should think it is about time for the limited to be asleep, given the pains you’ve gone through to bring back the shadows.”

The man’s expression does not change. “There will be time to rest later,” he says matter-of-factly. How boring. “Frankly, there are questions I need to ask you, and I’ve no clue how long this altruistic streak of yours will last.”

This catches Emet-Selch off-guard somewhat. “My, my. You give an ilm and they think they can take a yalm,” the taller man tuts. “Are these not questions your beloved Crystal Exarch can answer?”

At this the hyur’s scowl deepens. “You know as well as I do how godsdamned mysterious the _Exarch_ is set on appearing. Every question he’s asked is either deflected or outright ignored.” The crystalline gaze returns to him. “ _You_ at least have the common decency to answer, and so far those answers have rung true.”

Ah, so that’s how it was. In place of pretty half-truths cast in a polite and well-meaning glamour, the hyur is looking for the cold essentials; the consequences of their valiant actions. A realist, if Emet-Selch has the right of it. “And I take it your comrades don’t share your distrust? I must say, I was certain that you and the Warrior of Light—or, is it the Warrior of Darkness, now?—were bound at the hip.”

He sees the hyur bristle slightly. “A’zh— the _Warrior of Light_ ,” he corrects himself, remembering the time of night, “has ever been a man of action rather than thought. That is to say… he is selfless. If he can see no immediate threat to those around him, he will do whatever it takes, and the Scions mostly follow suit.”

There is a sudden tenderness to the smaller man’s countenance that threatens to give Emet-Selch a stomachache; he dismisses what remains of his tea with a huff. “That seems to be par for the course with you and yours,” he reminds the hyur irritably. “Acting first and thinking much later, if ever at all.” An utterly pointless, barbaric way of living. To see that what remains of his most beloved friend has sunk so low infuriates Emet-Selch terribly - tens of millennia have seen his patience wear _incredibly_ thin.

“I didn’t come here to argue the merits of humanity,” the hyur snaps just as readily, and Emet-Selch briefly considers snapping his thin neck in response. He is hardly worth the effort, though, and despite his currently insufferable attitude the man’s proximity to the Warrior of Light could prove advantageous in the future; Emet-Selch remains magnanimously still. “Nor was I seeking an accord - I know that our goals do not align.”

The Ascian wants very badly to rub his temples. “Yes, yes, an astute observation. Very well, let’s get on with it; I am beginning to feel significantly less charitable.”

“What do you know of the Crystal Exarch?”

Emet-Selch’s eyes roll so far back into his head that he sees light. “ _Truly?_ All that pomp and circumstance and you ask me the most redundant question imaginable?”

“We know precious little of him, aside from what he cannot hide,” the hyur continues, not to be deterred. “By his own design. Surely you must at least know _what_ he is.”

Emet-Selch barks out a laugh - it echoes across the dark expanse of illuminated forestry before them. “He is a mortal, same as any one of you, and his parlor trick of tying himself to yonder tower will not change that.”

The hyur makes a bit of a face at that, neat plait following suit as he tilts his head to the side. “Tying himself to the tower…? Do you mean to say that the tower is—”

“His very lifeforce, yes,” Emet-Selch interrupts, already bored. “I think it rather obvious.” He eyes the smaller man disdainfully, watching the few cogs that must exist in his feeble mind turn restlessly. “And now, a question of my own: what is it about the Exarch that has you so quick to assume the worst? Tendency to dance around inquiries aside, he has been nothing but welcoming— _supplicating_ , even, and his guidance has led you to do exactly what he has claimed.” The so-called sunless sea currently bathing them in darkness was proof enough of that.

“Because I know he’s lying,” the hyur says without looking back up at him; the absolute certainty in his voice takes Emet-Selch aback somewhat. “Absorbing the Light and expelling it…? That’s not how it works. Time may flow differently here than back on the Source, but the aether certainly doesn’t, and that’s all the Light is - aspected, corrupted aether.”

Emet-Selch finds himself _smiling_ , albeit with less than good intentions. “Is that so? Quite perceptive of you. Though I suppose any sorcerer worth his weight in tomes ought to know that.”

The hyur mirrors his expression unknowingly, one side of his lips quirked up into a mirthless little smirk. “I would know better than anyone, I think.”

“Oh?” That sounds like a story Emet-Selch should like to hear.

“Careful, now,” his visitor says in place of elaboration, looking up now; the smirk remains. “I could swear you were _interested_ in the goings-on of a halfman for a moment there.”

Absolutely insufferable, but Emet-Selch is the slightest bit amused just the same. “There are basic lessons to be learned from even the most inconsequential of creatures,” he fires back, disinclined to believe he has been mistaken for taking interest in an inconsequential mortal and even _more_ disinclined to believe that it might bear some inkling of truth. “But very well. I believe you mentioned questions in the plural sense."

“Just so.” The hyur adopts a more serious expression. “What is it that you’re after?”

A beat of silence stretches long between them. “You really must learn to better phrase these queries,” Emet-Selch says eventually, perilously close to feeling sorry for the lesser being in front of him. “What exactly do you _think_ I am after?”

“I think any one of us could tell that you’re of the same mind as the other Ascians - aiming to bring about the Eighth Umbral Calamity and continue until the star is whole again,” the man continues, more pensive than offended. “But you are so… _different_ from any other Ascian we’ve yet encountered. Flippant and oddly candid. _Helping_ us, though we are the antithesis to everything you know to be ideal.” He shakes his head. “Obviously that means you will be able to use whatever comes of the Lightwardens’ defeat against us, but why would you play your hand so early even if it is largely fake?”

The hyur looks legitimately plagued by his actions; an admittedly inscrutable sequence of events to anyone without half the facts. But… “You would have me enlighten you as to the details of my plans?” Emet-Selch asks, tone almost incredulous. Here he had almost picked the hyur out as an intellect among his kind. “That certainly is a brazen tactic, I’ll give you that.”

“It just doesn’t add up,” he insists, though the man’s posture indicates he can at least tell when no means no. His eyes are bright, searching. “There must be something else you’re after. Something personal, something you’re keeping tabs on.”

And _oh_ , it feels like a needle somewhere in his chest, baseless a guess though it is - a needle precariously close to the nail-sized little vial he stores his dearest and only friend’s recovered remains in. Emet-Selch slouches regally forward, expunging the prick and donning his trademark smirk, relishing the hyur’s slight flinch at the unexpected movement. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? For the big bad Ascian to be motivated by horrible, selfish means.”

Mild shock warps back into the all too familiar frown. “Gods know I already have all the reason I need to oppose you - this would just be cream on the cake.” The hyur pats himself down for his own sake, to regain his composure. “But I can see that I have exhausted your generosity for the time being.”

Indeed the little hyur has. But before he makes his strategic retreat - “You asked your question so I’ll now ask you mine: what is it that makes you an expert on absorbing aether?”

Emet-Selch does not expect the coy grin that spreads across the mortal’s face, nor does he expect it to jog his memory. “And you dodged my question, so I too shall dodge yours,” Hernais says. “Pleasant dreams, Emet-Selch.”

He watches the man wind back towards the Crystarium’s interior until he can no longer make out the shape of shear and battered robes, pulling himself another glass of something far stronger out of the air and ruminating. Vague and subdued though it is, he can feel something stir within his breast that so seldom occurs after his encounters with the Sundered— _interest_.


	2. first

Not for the first time that day, Hernais lets out a long and drawn out sigh. After a harrowing miniature adventure in the ruins of the Rak’tika Greatwood and the subsequent slaying of its resident Lightwarden, the hyur had wanted for nothing more than a long bath, an even longer nap, and to see the Warrior of Light to his quarters for a well-deserved respite following an overlong checkup in the Spagyrics - not necessarily in that order.

Having successfully completed two of three tasks, he is tucking into a delightfully vegetable-filled array of sandwiches when a sudden presence at his back sucks all of the sparse good mood from his person. “You should at least knock before you enter someone’s room, eerie teleportation ability or not,” Hernais mutters between bites - decadently fresh lettuce and a generous helping of unknown but sharp cheese crunch and crumble to the might of his ravenous jaw. “I coulb’ b’n up to somf’n indegn’t.”

He can hear the grimace before he properly turns around to see it. “I should think it polite not to talk with one’s mouth full, yet here we are.” Emet-Selch remains as unreadable as ever, broad shoulders bent forth with the weight of some unknowable burden. He glances over Hernais’ shoulder at the miscellaneous foodstuffs lain across the cloth with an equal amount of disgust. “Aside from which, you are most certainly not the type to get up to indecency without an audience - your little show of skill in Kholusia was proof enough of that.”

It shouldn’t surprise him that the Ascian has been watching them since Eulmore (and most certainly before then, too), but Hernais raises an eyebrow. “Liked what you saw, did you? Well, I don’t do private performances for free,” the hyur informs him, setting what remains of his sandwich down for the time being. Beads of moisture roll down his neck from still-new short strands of hair, still damp; he’s unusually cold. “You’re right, though. It takes at least two to have any fun.”

Golden eyes slide lazily over his person and Hernais finds himself shivering slightly. He should have toweled off more thoroughly. “I most certainly did not call upon you for a _show_ ,” Emet-Selch rebukes, as if it really needed to be voiced. He crosses his arms in a very characteristic fashion, though he doesn’t scowl as deeply as Hernais thought he might. “I cannot think of a bigger waste of time as watching a monkey dance.”

There is definitely truth to his scathing words, but Hernais is confident that the former Emperor of the Garlean Empire has dabbled in the indulgences of his so-called savages more than once previous. “Is that so?” Hernais turns his body where he’s perched on the bench to better look up at his guest, gingerly hefting his robes up in the process. “To what do I owe the absolute pleasure of this visit, then?”

Emet-Selch’s lips curl into a thin smile. “A wellness check,” he says simply. “Contrary to popular belief, your friend is not the only one to have suffered during the most recent leg of your brainless journey.”

Hernais tilts his head to consider this, hands resting neatly over that to which he is sure Emet-Selch refers - a nasty injury on his outer thigh, treated and bandaged but sore with malaspected aether. “Thoughtful,” the hyur quips, sparing no effort to mask the disbelief in his voice. “Though _suffer_ is quite a big word; ego aside, I am perfectly fine.”

“Oh?” the taller of two says, smirk lingering. “My obligate concern is unwarranted, then.” They are the words and mannerisms of someone glad of an excuse to finally leave, but leave Emet-Selch does not; instead, he takes a seat next to Hernais, long legs free from the would-be prison of the wooden table behind him. “Your pride will be the death of you, hyur.”

His words go unnoticed as Hernais attempts to gauge the Ascian’s intentions. His fellow Warriors of Darkness are all no more than a few hallways away, each tended to and recouping lost strength - had he meant to kill any of them, it probably would have been best to do so in or shortly after the Ravel. And it wasn’t much like Emet-Selch to meander; breezily eccentric as he could no doubt come across, he was always watching, observing, calculating. Hernais sees little of that in his countenance now, with the other man no longer looking directly at him.

He thinks back to what he knows of Emet-Selch. Of his origins, in a world whole and free from strife, so far removed from their own; of the tens of thousands of years since then, spent wandering and scheming and searching, spent trying very hard to remember and much harder to forget.

Hernais realizes that Emet-Selch must be lonely.

“I could say the same of you,” he says eventually, most of his unease dulled with understanding. Hernais is no stranger to loneliness, different though their experiences may be, and he is also no stranger to coping with it - the yellow eyes he sees in this moment are of another, kind and warm and brimming with selflessness. Sizing up the taller man's imposing figure, the hyur rests his hand upon a velvety knee, earning him a languid look of skepticism. “Come,” Hernais says lowly, with only the faintest of hesitation. “I will show you precisely how healthy I am.”

It is an invitation to momentary solace; an offer, as blunt as Hernais will allow himself to be. Emet-Selch is a smart man, learned in all things human from his extended stint as such, and recognizes the proposition for what it is. “Perhaps you are not as well as you think, saying something like that to someone like me," he arches an eyebrow, less offended than he is apparently baffled. “You do remember who I am, yes?”

The reaction is far from the insurmountable disgust he was half-expecting, so Hernais does naught but lean closer, committed. He has to crane his neck to meet the other man’s eyes; Emet-Selch towers over him even as he slouches, gaze predacious. It’s a laughable position for both of them, and Hernais can only imagine what would happen were his comrades to learn of even this move, fingers finding purchase in the luxurious fur of the Ascian’s coat. But Emet-Selch has scratched his back, for one reason or another - Hernais thinks it only right he return the favor, and he would be lying if he said he was not intrigued. “Our curiously helpful Ascian foe,” Hernais says, tone distantly sultry. “You’ve a fairly distinctive face, Emet-Selch.”

That elicits something of a chuckle, but he remains agonizingly still otherwise. “ _That_ is my defining feature? Thank goodness I know better than to be wounded.” His brow casts a shadow over his eyes, beginning to twinkle with something Hernais can’t place. “I would think carefully about my next move if I were you,” Emet-Selch mutters; Hernais’ hair stands on end.

A warning - be it what Hernais aims for or something altogether more sinister, Emet-Selch would no longer be holding back. There is the distinct possibility that any display of vulnerability would be used against him, and even after all the questionably noble assistance the man has offered them thus far Hernais wouldn't put it past him. There is trepidation in his breast, small and shivering, but it is barely discernible over the resounding _thrill_ seeping through him; where there is high risk of failure, there may well be high reward.

So Hernais tugs the fine coat down and kisses Emet-Selch.

He isn’t especially strong, but there is no resistance. Hernais has tilted his head as far as is comfortable, pressing their lips together where dips meet curves. It is not a long or drawn-out affair, but Hernais learns two things: one, that Emet-Selch’s lips are surprisingly soft; two, that Emet-Selch is broader still than he looks from afar, cadaverous shoulders surrounding him on what feels like all sides.

When he relaxes back down onto the bench, Emet-Selch is still looking at him, seemingly deciding what to do. Hernais’ heart thunders in his chest despite himself.

Finally, no more than a second later, Emet-Selch sighs. “Oh, _very well_. I will indulge you in your hedonism this once,” he acquiesces, massively put upon, before leaning down to kiss Hernais again.

They meet halfway, Hernais eager and in too deep now to feel troubled by it. He must make an addendum to one of his previous discoveries; Emet-Selch’s lips are just as firm as they are plush as he presses hard, enough that Hernais’ rear makes contact with lacquered wood once again. The taller man barely has to throw wide his lips for Hernais to follow suit, hungry where the Ascian had seen fit to interrupt his dinner. Emet-Selch is a poor substitute in that regard - he tastes of nothing at all except saliva - but he makes up for what he lacks in mirroring perfectly what Hernais does, tongues dancing in time with each other.

It isn’t a comfortable position to maintain with the gulf between their heights; Emet-Selch may be used to slouching and leaning down, but Hernais’ back begins to protest at the strain when he should probably be resting his battle-weary body. He is nothing if not intrepid, however - as gracefully as he can he moves to slide onto Emet-Selch’s lap for a vertical boost while their mouths continue to slip and slide against one another. 

Gentleman that he is, Emet-Selch helps him along, hoisting him up with an ease Hernais does not expect from someone so wizened. Minding his injured leg, the other is guided around Emet-Selch’s waist until Hernais is straddling him, robe riding up his thighs indecently.

He wonders what sort of lover Emet-Selch would be as his grip shifts from Hernais’ legs to his hair, fisting what is left of it with authoritative force. The hyur moans heady into the kiss; damp threads of mahogany catching on jewelry, encouraging the sparks of pain flitting across his eyelids, but what if he hadn’t? Would Emet-Selch have loosened his grip if Hernais had hissed in pain? Is he considerate, or does he take what he wants? Dimly he ponders the likelihood that the Ascians partook in sexual intercourse, back when the world was whole. What kind of lover was this man back then?

“ _Gh_ ,” Hernais starts, recoiling slightly from the hand on the bare skin of his neck.

There is no concern in his features, but Emet-Selch pauses regardless. “Oh, come now. I hadn’t even begun to squeeze yet.”

It’s a statement that sounds different from his usual brand of dripping sarcasm; Hernais licks his swollen lips in anticipation. “No, you’re just... cold,” he observes intelligently. Pliant, in a way that a corpse is not, but lacking any of the heat a living being should have. The sensation is oddly exhilarating, now that Hernais has remembered to stop thinking. “Surprised me a little. Please, by all means, continue.”

He gets a wry look in response, but Emet-Selch obliges him - not by kissing him again nor wringing his slender neck, but by holding him flush to his chest and standing up with an obstinate _pop_. A hand cradles his bum thigh gently and Hernais clamps the other tight, arms thrown around the man in a haphazard embrace. The coat mirrors his own warmth; Hernais buries his nose in fur and relishes the feeling of being carried, controlled.

He’s deposited on the bed with much less consideration, bouncing slightly on the springy material. “It would be a shame not to make use of such accommodations,” Emet-Selch says, Hernais dipping as he follows the hyur down. He suspects it is less a courtesy and more a limitation of his anatomy, but far be it from Hernais to argue with soft sheets and a plush pillow at his back. “I presume you would like to be penetrated.”

There is something very clinical and detached about Emet-Selch’s wording and it makes Hernais laugh, ripped from his throat like the Light from the sky outside. “Uncertain if that is the phrase I would use, but that’s the idea, yes.”

He is almost certain a remark like that means foreplay is out of the question—and Hernais would not mind terribly were this the case—but Emet-Selch leans down to continue his previous ministrations, placing a kiss to his mouth and then his jaw. Long gaunt limbs loom above him like a cage, effectively trapping him in place, subjected to the Ascian’s ever-changing whims. In the moment, with insistent incisors dragging irreverently across his skin, Hernais can’t bring himself to care.

Fingers once again find their way to Hernais’ slender neck, cool to the touch, and this time he has the good sense not to interrupt. Face pulling away, Emet-Selch is content to watch as a pressureless curl of the hands morphs into something much less demure; Hernais can feel the muscle of his throat slowly cave to the Ascian’s strength, blood pounding in his ears as what remains of his breath leaves him. He tries to inhale but there’s so little give he barely manages to squeak - Hernais would chuckle fondly at the sensation were he not seconds away from passing out.

Emet-Selch releases his grip halfway, allowing the hyur to gulp greedily at the air for a few seconds, but his convalescence is short-lived; he is choked much more roughly this time, Emet-Selch’s formidable weight pushing him down with enough force that even the pillow behind him feels an accomplice to his suffocation. Instinct takes over and Hernais begins to squirm and resist, hands hurtling up to pry at Emet-Selch’s vice grip, but it is a futile endeavor - akin to flight when gravity exists, and Hernais is falling into a bottomless abyss.

Just as his vision begins to waver and darken he is freed, and seldom in his life has Hernais spluttered and gasped so hard as he does now, still riding the thrill of helplessness. Emet-Selch pulls his hands away and replaces them with his mouth, nursing the beginnings of what Hernais is sure would be a healthy purple ring across his nape.

Thin fingers dig into supple velveteen coating the man’s broad back. “You know, for someone— _ah_ ,” Hernais tries to say, once he’s regained some of his breath, though it proves difficult to maintain much of any train of thought with teeth digging so blissfully into the curve of his neck. “For someone so disgusted by basal, savage desires, you re— _really_ know what you’re doing, Emet.”

Emet-Selch drags a tongue over the wound Hernais can feel there, lapping up any blood that might stain his porcelain skin. “You say that as if it is my name,” he scoffs, idly amused, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “It is a title; there have been many Emet-Selchs.”

Hernais ignores the slight burn and leans his head away from where he’d arched his neck, allowing the Ascian access to anything he might please. “I’m aware, yes, but I can’t call you something I don’t know,” he protests, faint irritation lost to the sensation of wandering hands flitting across Hernais’ loose leisure robes - Gods smile upon whomever is responsible for laundering in the Pendants. “Unless you would like to tell me?”

At this the Ascian stills, and while he laments the loss of pressure Hernais wonders regretfully if he’d gone too far; nothing kills one’s libido quite like sordid memories, and a name is nothing but the instances it’s been invoked. 

After a moment, Emet-Selch laughs - actually _laughs_ from somewhere deep in his core, and it is a sound of hopeful despair that makes Hernais shake. “No,” Emet-Selch says into the back of his ear. Distantly the hyur notes the knot adorning the sash across his waist being tugged indolently apart. “ _Emet_ will suffice for our purposes, Hernais.”

It is the first time Hernais has heard his name uttered by the man he is currently sandwiched by, and the syllables go straight to his groin. By the time his front is exposed to the chilly air of the room, dressing gown cast carelessly aside, the hyur is fully erect and flushed for it, aching as much with need as he is the odd adrenaline that predates his inevitable soreness. 

Emet-Selch’s eyes rove about the planes of his naked body with the distant appreciation of a game hunter deciding where first to carve open his prize. Evidently he means to start from the top; Hernais flinches where cool fingers tweak and tease a nipple, breath fluttering where yet more of them trace his ribs with manicured nails, not quite protruded enough to be emaciated. The taller man makes no move to supplant his movements with his tongue, just watches, and Hernais tilts his head, lowers his eyelids, jerks his torso up to make it a show.

Small hands, smaller still compared to those handling him, rest on the pressed lapel of Emet-Selch’s coat; largely unaccustomed to doing so little, Hernais wishes to touch the Ascian touching him, to feel that which he shouldn’t. If Emet-Selch resents his lesser caress he makes no move to impede the hyur’s efforts, content to continue clawing and stroking and clawing again at the most sensitive parts of his pectorals, and Hernais’ fingers tremble as they explore the clothed expanse of Emet-Selch’s chest, slide up to trace his chiseled jaw. The man’s eyes are luminous, waning half-moons amongst the Light; Hernais is the sea itself in the way he feels compelled to close the gap between them, to drown in his cool embrace.

(If Hernais didn’t know any better, he would think himself tempered - greeted at the maw by certainty in his current course, in abandoning all thoughts of else; but Hernais _does_ know better, enough to know there are no gods left in this forgotten splinter of the world, and fewer still who would wear the faces of men besides.)

The spell is broken when digits already slick with something warm brush against the sensitive skin of his cock, and Hernais chokes out a strangled, “ _Emet!_ ”

He blinks back unbidden spots and glances down, away from endless amber and towards his own torso, finding it streaked with raw, bleeding tracks where Emet-Selch has ravaged him - perhaps the only way he can justify humoring the hyur. Beyond weeping wounds he sees himself engorged and pricked where long, blood-stained fingers hover, coated in a generous amount of arousal; it would be clear to any onlooker that he was already perilously close to his climax.

The man responsible raises an eyebrow at him, curled lips just barely holding at bay the mocking observations Emet-Selch no doubt has for the sight. Undisturbed, Hernais looks back up at him through his eyelashes, squinting at the throbbing pain he’s beginning to register. “It’s been a while,” he says primly, and it is the truth; _and you are much better at this than you have any right to be_ stays decidedly in his thoughts.

“I have never seen someone equate pain so readily with pleasure,” Emet-Selch says at length, rather piteously, as if it were _Hernais’_ fault his skin is now torn to shreds. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you _wanted_ to be broken.”

He twitches painfully at the suggestion. “On any other day you’d be right on the money, but— _ah_ ,” Hernais falters at a curious, teasing pressure against his balls. “I’m afraid I have obligations on the morrow, so I must at least remain in one piece.”

The roaming hand stops just short of his entrance as Emet-Selch ponders this. “That may prove difficult, unequipped as we are,” he says tonelessly.

Hernais grimaces up at him. “I’ve seen you pull every manner of inconsequential trinket out of thin air. Just— do _whatever_ it is you do and conjure up some oil.”

For all his ire he is brusquely ignored; soiled fingers are instead held up to Hernais’ lips, Emet-Selch waiting expectantly beyond them. “Awfully demanding now, aren’t we?” he drawls, a nasty gash of a grin adorning his face. “Suck as much or as little as you like; it is your ecstasy on the line.”

Hernais hears much of what he imagines to be Solus zos Galvus in the command, and it sends a shiver down his spine. He parts his lips obediently and takes the proffered fingers into his mouth, tasting himself tinged with copper as he works his tongue between each one. Emet-Selch looks on impassively, gazed fixed on Hernais’ bobbing head, and not for the first time Hernais wonders what he must look like, bruised and battered and begging for more.

When Hernais retreats, lips tacky with his own glossy blood, the Ascian does not make him wait; he soon feels a cold finger, doubly so coated with his rapidly cooling spit, sink unceremoniously into his hole, followed closely by another. Emet-Selch is neither kind nor cruel in his motions, working him open enough that a third finger might slide through. His saliva is a remarkably poor substitute for lubrication, innards alight with an unpleasant searing friction, but the feeling of being manhandled is enough to make Hernais moan and snap his hips down, fucking himself on steadily warming digits.

Emet-Selch curves during his next approach, does _something_ with his fingers that brushes up against the bundle of nerves inside him that makes Hernais thrust his head back and _keen_ through the pain, burying the man up to his knuckles in a quickly tightening ring of muscle. Dimly he realizes Emet-Selch must not mean to enter him properly at all, content to viciously spear him in a hurried mockery of sex rather than dirty himself in the process, but Hernais is too dizzy to take any offense, tunnel vision locked solely on the mountain of pressure inside him - he is so _close_ to coming, untouched—

He lets out an undignified cry of frustration when Emet-Selch pulls out of him completely and straightens up a bit, fumbling with something. When Hernais gathers himself enough to glare at the man he finds Emet-Selch’s cock protruding from his robes as he slicks it thoroughly, pale yellow flicking back to his own bright blue. “Well, I certainly don’t want this to hurt for _me_ ,” he reasons, the barest hint of lust peeking through the timbre of his voice.

“Fuck you,” Hernais says, his scowl devoid of any real heat.

He lifts his hips up and Emet-Selch raises him yet further, until the head is aligned with Hernais’ gaping rim. “On the contrary,” he replies, countenance predatory, “it is I who will be fucking you.”

Hernais spills over before Emet-Selch is properly sheathed, messy seed pooling near his abdomen, and would do so again before the man was finished with him. Heedless of the hyur’s hypersensitive state, he sets a vigorous pace, each thrust littering Hernais’ vision with stars, a meager parody of the sunless sea. Emet-Selch is larger still than the sum of his fingers, and Hernais feels the telltale pull of imminent tears in his most intimate of areas, but he would not interrupt this for the world. Hernais is _had_ , not as a fragile mortal in need of saving or purging, but as an object; a warm hole to sate primitive desires and naught else.

Emet-Selch grabs at his thighs for leverage as he pistons faster, a stray thumb digging into the conspicuous bandage hiding the worst of the hyur's injuries from harm. Hernais bites back a cry and squeezes at cuffed wrists, not to dissuade but _encourage_ , the pain slinging across his synapses until somewhere along the way it becomes pleasure, settling just beneath his hardening length. He bucks and grinds as coherently as he can, meeting Emet-Selch where he snaps forward, again and again.

At some point he must have started to chant Emet-Selch’s name, because as soon as he realizes it the man dips hurriedly down to quiet him with a kiss, the same bruising force applied to his ass now on his lips. Teeth find his bottom lip and clamp down, reprimanding, and it is a lucky thing Emet-Selch remains in place to catch the mighty wail of agonized delight that escapes him - it would not do to have the whole of the Pendants awake and searching for a man surely murdered, going by the volume of his screech.

Hernais retains enough clarity to look up at the Ascian claiming him, but not enough to parse what he finds in his expression. Sadness, longing, fury and regret all seem to characterize Emet-Selch as their eyes meet, unbroken by the motions of impaling and being impaled, and though it is not there on his behalf Hernais cradles the man’s sunken jaw anyway. “It’s okay,” he murmurs instinctively, voice hoarse. Judgement was something best left to the gods, and though the words are a lie not even a child would believe, it is as hollow a comfort as they both deserve.

A particularly desperate thrust sees Hernais climaxing again, and this time Emet-Selch does the same, his seed doing little to dull the resounding ache the hyur is beginning to feel, permeating every stray corner of his being. When he pulls out, spent and soft and soiled, a viscous trail of semen follows and Hernais is left sticky and empty. There is no afterglow in which to bask; the air between them is disquieted, broken only by the soft creak of Emet-Selch making himself presentable and sitting at the very edge of the bed they’ve thoroughly debauched.

One of his hands lays well within reach, but Hernais makes no move to touch it. “There are worse ways to spend an evening,” he croaks, intent on being humorous. Never would he have expected _Emet-Selch’s_ sentimentality to spoil good fun.

He makes a noise of what Hernais will assume is agreement. “I hope you weren’t expecting cuddles and kisses,” Emet-Selch says eventually, still facing away from him. “Despite my penchant for sightseeing, I do have a schedule to keep.”

Hernais scoffs at this, before wincing at how much everything seems to burn as he pulls himself up. “I didn’t think you the type.” As he racks his sobering brain for a suitably witty farewell, he realizes this may well be the last time they meet under the guise of tense alliance. He also realizes just how filthy he is and grimaces; after he'd just taken a bath, no less. “Never you fear; I am perfectly capable of tending to myself.”

Apparently satisfied, Emet-Selch rises to his feet, looking back at him with a wry smile. “So I have been told. Until next time, then,” he tips his head, before vanishing just as unceremoniously as he had appeared.

_Next time_. Hernais allows his head to roll back as he closes his eyes, quietly cursing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the POV swap. sometimes you just want your nasty OC's back blown out by the villain!


	3. last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angsty little addendum. i couldn't help myself ok

Their frivolous simulacrum of intimacy continues, becomes something of a game; and if Emet-Selch finds himself too endeared towards the thought of winning to consider upending the board, he keeps the budding thought to himself - his paramour seems to prefer it that way.

Hernais Braques sits atop him like he is a king upon his throne, biting hard at the swell of Emet-Selch’s bottom lip in hopes of pain reflected twicefold, best efforts spent attempting to skewer himself despite the layers of clothing still between them. He is as effortlessly delicate as he ever is, pale skin absorbing the dim glow of firelight, but his brow creases too severely; the shadows loom too long under his eyes.

His impatience manifests in a guttural growl when spindly hands catch a yet smaller pair, interrupting a concerted effort to free himself from the shackles of his day robes. “You are being _ever_ so objectionable about this,” Hernais huffs in his haste, and the expression he gives Emet-Selch is mutinous. “Was it not you who apperated into my chambers? Or am I mistaken in my—really, quite founded—assumption that you would have me the same as ever?”

The man’s mouth is skilled at a great many things, not the least of which being prattling on when he is slighted. Emet-Selch considers silencing him manually, but he holds the hyur fast for a reason. “There’s no need to rush,” he says cooly, face set in just the facsimile of disinterest he prefers. Then, rather at odds, he continues. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

Hernais’ response is brisk. “Flip me over and fuck me so hard I pass out.”

It’s a deeply pleasurable thought on its own, one that has him hardening beneath the privacy of his robes, but there is a limit to how impersonal Emet-Selch is willing to be; especially at present, on the eve of his reckoning. Even now he can see them, their motley band of gifted misfits, conjuring miracles and promising him his demise ere morrow’s end – Hernais among them. “Do you think it cathartic on my part?” he asks, cloying, using his leverage to shove the man off his seat and spin him on the way down, that he lies half-prone. “Do you lament making your bed with an Ascian?”

He's being demeaning, as he usually is. Hernais scowls up at him, cheek pressed firmly into the mattress, as he twists his lower half into position. “Not once have I fucked you for your benefit,” he grits through his teeth, as Emet-Selch takes to undressing him, fingers working at buttons that keep the collar wound so tightly around his neck. “I regret a great many things, Emet-Selch, but lying with you is not among them.”

It is a stab at his ego, Emet-Selch understands, that Hernais does not feel regret on account of there being no attachment or bond between them with which to feel so encumbered, but he feels the slightest flicker of fondness in his breast at the idea of the opposite. “Had I the ability to feel so strongly for you,” says Emet-Selch, tugging the hyur free of his vestments.

Once he is completely bare, ass raised in anticipation of Emet-Selch’s abuse, the man pauses. Wonders what exactly the pull in his chest at Hernais’ obscure, faraway look must be, because surely it isn’t sentimentality. “I need the rest,” Hernais admits quietly, spits the confession out with an aborted chuckle. “Tomorrow is a big day.”

 _And my demons won’t let me sleep_ goes unsaid, though one does not need to know Hernais particularly well to hear it; it characterized much of the things Hernais did or didn’t do, his obsession with the Warrior, worse still than his peers. Emet-Selch hums in agreement, slicking his fingers in silence. “So I keep hearing,” he muses distantly, discarding the vial into the same nothingness whence it came.

Hernais tenses visibly at the unannounced invasion, shoulders gathering up near his ears. “Aren’t you even a little afraid?” he asks, unbidden, as Emet-Selch revisits his depths. “Or are you that certain you’ll win?”

The Ascian chuckles openly now, half of his hand vanished into a quaking ring of muscle. “In my time among the living—and my, how long a time that has been—I have learned that nothing is certain. I have poured _everything_ into exterminating you and yours, and I will continue to do so. Nevertheless, I am weary.” The stakes have never been higher, but Emet-Selch feels an odd sense of ease now; the calm before the storm. “Be it with success or failure, I would see things ended.”

He removes his fingers with an obscene _pop_. When he glances down amidst preparing himself he sees Hernais gazing at him pointedly through his periphery, brutal in its intensity. His ability to boast such defiance in so compromising a position will never cease to impress. “He’s going to kill you,” Hernais says tonelessly. “And I’m going to help him.”

Emet-Selch fucks him as viciously as requested, until Hernais is littered with bruises and falls limp into the mess at his knees. His body is very nearly too old to be catering to such whims, creaking and snapping as it does when he rises, spent and somber. He looks down upon the hyur, tear-streaked face rendered neutral with the blessing of unconsciousness, and smiles forlornly; hands find the ends of the duvet and draw it over the sight, creating a cocoon of warmth. An imitation of affection.

“Pleasant dreams, Hernais,” Emet-Selch says as he snuffs out the light and disappears into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes they both end with the stupid pleasant dreams bit and yes its kind of embarrassing but THANK YOU for reading nonetheless \o/ rest in peace emet you mighty bastard


End file.
